Rekindle Read online

  “Oh God!” someone exclaims as the door to the coupe opens. “I am so sorry! I’m not used to anyone being here, and once I realized there was a huge truck sitting in the lot, I stopped as fast as I could,” the woman apologized.

  She’s young—close to mine and Cam’s age, if I had to guess. Her light brown hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and she’s wearing fashion-forward yoga gear.

  “No biggie.” I try and calm her frazzled nerves. “I’m still standing, so we’re all good.”

  She seems to gather herself quickly. “Goodness me, where are my manners? I’m Shayna. I live in 113.” She sticks out her hand to introduce herself, her words dripping with southern charm.

  “Emma Grace,” I reply, shaking her hand. “And that’s my roommate, Cameron.” I point to Cam, who is headed our way. “We’re just moving in to 115, so it looks like we’re neighbors.” I smile, trying to be neighborly.

  We weren’t friends with our neighbors in Chicago. They were freaks. I’m pretty sure the guy who lived across the breezeway was a serial killer. Legit. It’s nice to finally be living next to a person who is our age and normal, albeit a little high-strung.

  Shayna looks as happy as we are to have people her age next door. “Well, isn’t that just the bee’s knees! I am so glad to have y’all as neighbors! If there is anything y’all need, just holler, okay?” I swear to you, the woman doesn’t know how you use the letter ‘g.’ Her words come out like ‘anythin.’ It’s adorable. I want her to walk around with me and talk to me all day.

  I know that, technically, I’m from the South, but moving away at such a young age caused me to lose most of my southern accent. The only real phrase that never left my vocabulary is ‘y’all.’ Hearing the way Shayna talks makes me smile. A warm feeling passes through me. I feel like I’m home—really home—for the first time in years.

  “We certainly will. Thanks, Shayna,” I say with a smile. She starts to turn away when I remember I don’t know anything about this place anymore. I stop her quickly. “Oh, while you’re here, there is something you can help us with. Two things, actually. We need to know the best pizza in town for dinner tonight, and I was wondering if you knew how far away the high school was from these condos?”

  “Of course! The best pizza, hands down, is Romero’s. Great beer, even better pizza. It’s one of my favorite spots to go after a long day’s work, for happy hour. And yeah, the school is about 10 minutes in that direction.” She points down the road. “It’s one of the reasons I moved here. Super convenient.”

  “Wait, do you work at the school?” I question, sounding almost hopeful.

  “Yeah,” she answers. “I’ve been teaching tenth grade science for two years.”

  “That’s wicked! I’m starting there on Monday. Eleventh grade literature.” I look over at Cam, who is rolling her eyes at me. “What?” I question her.

  “Nothing!” She laughs, holding up her hands. “It shouldn’t surprise me anymore that you can find something in common with a complete stranger in five minutes flat.” Cam shakes her head and turns her attention to Shayna. “Listen, we have a few more trips to make, but do you want to come grab dinner with us tonight? That way we won’t get lost on the way to this fabulous pizzeria?”

  Shayna’s eyes light up. “That sounds great! I’m just going to run in and shower real quick. I should be ready to go in a jiffy!” She turns and swishes quickly to her house. Cam and I share a look. Yeah, she might be a little eccentric, but she’s sweet.

  We finish unloading and change our clothes. By the time we walk out of our front door, Shayna is just heading over. We jump in her car and head to Romero’s. The pizza is fantastic, which is a big statement coming from two girls who were raised in Chicago. The company is great too. We chat and laugh with Shayna for a few hours, just getting to know each other and sharing crazy stories. I breathe a deep sigh of relief and take a sip of my beer. This really is going to be a good thing. I can feel it in my bones.

  Chapter Two

  Rhett

  I will not kill Micah. I will not kill Micah. I will not kill Micah.

  I try to repeat this mantra over and over again. I mean, if I say it enough, then maybe the urge to strangle my best friend will actually go away. Won’t it? If not, then I’m totally fucked, because right now I’d really love nothing more than to inflict physical pain on him for getting us both in trouble with the chief, hence the reason I am washing fucking windows right now.

  “Hey, bro, how long are you going to give me the fucking silent treatment? Honestly, I can’t take this shit. You want to be mad, then be mad—hell, even punch my ass, but you know I hate someone giving me the silent treatment. It’s not like I was trying to get us put on window duty, but fuckin’ A, brother, did you see the ass on Chief’s daughter? How was I not supposed to check it out? And seriously, it’s not like I forced you to look. So cut the shit already. Let’s just clean the windows and get out of here,” Micah says with a serious look on his face.

  He has been my best friend for over ten years, and I still don’t know why. We are nothing alike. While I’m more reserved and respectful, he’s a total man-whore and doesn’t ever try to deny it. In fact, he boasts it proudly.

  “Micah, you told me to—and I quote—‘check that ass out.’ How was I supposed to know whose ass I was actually looking at? It’s like if you tell someone to smell something after saying how bad it stinks, then they’re going to smell it. It’s a knee-jerk reaction. It’s the same way with telling someone to look at something. So yes, I looked, but honestly, dude, it was only because you told me to, which makes this all your fault,” I say a little louder than I should.

  I really probably shouldn’t be as pissed as I am, but after the week I’ve had, all I want to do is go grab a few beers, then go home and crash for the rest of the night and most of the next day.

  “Rhett, fine, I’m sorry I told you to look at one of the best asses in the history of asses. Okay? Are we solid now?”

  “Micah,”—I know I sound as exasperated as I feel—“whatever. We’re solid. Now, can we finish up these windows so we can get home, shower, and unwind for once this week?”

  “Hell fuckin’ yeah, because I need to get my dick wet. It’s been too long.”

  “No, it’s been three days, actually. One day you’re gonna catch something that Ajax can’t wipe off, dumbass.”

  “Naw, bro, I’m as safe as they come. I have a box of condoms in my truck, a box in every room of my apartment, and I keep five in my wallet at all times. I wrap my shit up. Safe sex is the best fucking sex as far as I’m concerned. I ain’t got time to be a baby daddy. So that’s one thing you don’t have to worry about. All that settling down shit is for you. Not me. The women love for me to put out their fires with my extinguisher. It’s all they think about, so who am I to deny them? It would be fucking selfish. I’m honestly doing a good deed,” he says.

  “Man, you gotta quit calling your junk the extinguisher; it’s disturbing as hell,” I say in between laughs. This man may be a complete idiot, but he’s loyal and he keeps me laughing all the time. There’s never a dull moment with Micah in the room.

  “Last window on my side, Micah. Are you about done with your side?” I holler.

  “Yeah, man, I just finished. It’s time to head out,” he says, clapping his hands together.

  “Bout fuckin’ time. Let’s blow this joint,” I say as I slap him on the shoulders. We’ve had a long-ass shift, and now it’s time to let loose and shoot a few rounds of pool at Reed’s.

  The night is going as usual. We grab a table and order a round of beer while settling in with a game of pool. The women are always the same. Slutty as hell and half naked, with a shit ton of that shit they call makeup all over their faces and overly spritzed in cheap-as-shit perfume that they probably got from the dollar store. They all attempt to make a pass at me, and I decline, having to watch them pout like they do every weekend. They somehow think that I will change my mind, but I never do a
nd never will. I don’t want a woman who tries too hard. For once, I would just like to find a woman who relies on her natural beauty.

  I’ve dated a few women here and there, but it always falls through because they like to party all the time, and I’d much rather stay home and watch a movie or just go out to dinner. I’m not the partying type. I guess that’s my downfall.

  I’m a relationship kind of man; the one-night-stand thing just isn’t me, because I was raised to respect a woman in all aspects of life. Maybe I’m just too picky, or maybe I’m searching for something that doesn’t exist. Who knows? One thing is clear; I’d rather jack off all night than hook up with one of these women and have them start stalking my ass. I’ll let Micah have all he wants. I’ll just steer fucking clear of these women.

  After a few beers, I’m finally loosening up and having a good time. Micah is, of course, being Micah, and has women hanging on his every word. He keeps yelling about putting out their fires, and I can’t help but laugh at his stupid ass and the fact that his cheesy pick-up lines actually work on them. It’s amusing as hell, but really kind of sad that they love it so much.

  “Rhett, you wanna come back to my place for a nightcap? Mindy and Laura here would love for you to join us. It would seem Laura is quite fond of you, bro.”

  “Naw, man, thanks for the invite, but I’m going to head home and crash for the night,” I politely decline, like always.

  “Fine, but don’t say that I never tried to give you anything. Later, bro,” he calls out with a shit-eating grin on his face.

  They head out the door, leaving me to cover the tab. “Assholes,” I say under my breath. I hold up my hand and signal to Dolly that I’m ready to pay. I watch as she sashays—yes, sashays—over to me, leaning over far enough to push her fake-ass double-D tits in my face.

  “Is that all, sugar, or would you like anythin’ else?” she says as she bats her fake eyelashes excessively at me.

  “No, Dolly, I’m all good.” I open my wallet and put a hundred on the table.

  “Oh, I’m sure you are good, sugar,” she says teasingly, but I don’t respond to her, because I’m too busy trying to pick up the paper that fell from my wallet. When I see what it is, my breath catches in my throat. It’s an old picture that I forgot I even had. A picture of the first girl I ever loved. A picture of the girl I was certain would one day be my wife. A picture from the last day I ever saw the girl of my dreams. A picture of my M&M.

  Chapter Three

  Emma Grace

  You would think that living somewhere for a month would mean you’d be pulling your clothes from a closet and not from a cardboard box labeled EMMA’S SHIT. You would think that. But you would be wrong.

  I’m late. A-freaking-gain! I snatch my gray pants from my bed and pull the plum-colored top I just spent twenty minutes looking for from my box of clothes and toss them in the dryer, because honestly, who has time to iron these days? Nobody. That’s who.

  I march into the kitchen, twisting my hair up as I go. Clip in my mouth, my eyes focused solely on the coffee pot on the counter, I don’t notice Cam sitting at the bar.

  “Red lace? Got a hot date later?” Cam hollers.

  I scream. It’s a knee-jerk reaction.

  “Jesus, Cam! Warn a girl next time. You scared me to death.” I shoot an evil look her way. She just laughs. Damn morning people.

  My clip falls to the floor and I bend to pick it up, hitting my head on the counter in the process.

  “Chica, I love you to the moon and back, but you are a hot mess in the mornings. Legit. Hot. Mess.” She’s laughing at me.

  “Whore,” I mumble under my breath.

  “Tramp,” she comes back quickly.

  Any sane person who hung around us would probably think we hated each other, as much time as we spend insulting the other person, but that is so far from the truth. We have shared so many good times, and we’ve suffered through the worst of times too. I don’t know what I would do without her. Our tactless nicknames are terms of endearment. Neither of us are mushy-gushy people, so it works for us.

  Securing my hair in a clip, I reach for a coffee mug that’s in the cabinet and pour myself a warm cup. Coffee is the nectar of the gods. I couldn’t live without it. Well, I could, I just wouldn’t be a functioning member of society. “Ugh! Seven thirty is a ridiculous time to have to be at work. Remind me again why I thought teaching was a good idea?” I beg.

  “Because you’re an absolutely brilliant person. You need to share your brilliance with developing minds. Not sharing that brilliance is selfish. A real bitch move. And you don’t want to be a bitch.” Her face is completely serious. “Plus, you get summers off.” She shrugs.

  “True. Summers off is a definite perk,” I concede.

  “Shut your mouth. You love your job. I know you do. Don’t act like summer vacation is the reason you do what you do.”

  “I know. I do love my job. Really. It’s just early, and I haven’t had my coffee, and I miss my pillow. The caffeine is starting to take hold though, so I’m good.”

  Cam glances over my shoulder to the stove. “No, you’re late.”

  “Shit fire and save matches!” I yell as I look at the clock. It’s taunting me, changing from 7:07 to 7:08 when I turn to look at it. “Shayna will be here in like ten minutes and I’m still in my underwear!” I toss my empty mug in the sink and make a mad dash to grab my clothes from the dryer and get dressed.

  I have been riding to work for the past month with Shayna. I mean, it just makes sense. We live next door to each other and work at the same place. I know, eventually, I’ll have to buy a car. In Chicago, I had no need for one. Public transportation was everywhere, which is not the case in Alabama. Cam and I have been sharing the car that she bought our first week here, and that’s fine for now, but I also need my own wheels.

  I hop my way back into the living room, trying to put on my other heel, when I see Shayna talking to Cam. “Good morning! Sorry! I know, I’m horribly late. Again. But I just have to grab my purse and coffee and I’m ready.

  “You’re fine, honey. I’m used to it by now,” Shayna says with a grin.

  I yank my purse up and head to the kitchen to make a travel mug. Cam spins on her barstool and holds out a travel mug of creamy coffee goodness. “Aren’t you the best little love slave!” I coo.

  “Pfft. I’m expecting a gourmet meal tonight.” We kiss on the cheek and I spin around to Shayna.

  “Let’s hit it, chica.”

  “Whoa. Back that ass up, hot momma.” I look over my shoulder at Cam, confused.

  She reaches down and pulls a dryer sheet from my butt. “Classy,” I mutter. She smacks my butt and I’m out the door with a yelp.

  Tenth grade honors literature. When the principal asked if I would be willing to take on a younger honors class, I was hesitant. Who’d have thought that this would be my favorite class to teach? They’re younger than the kids in all of my other classes, but they’re fantastic. It’s right after lunch, and even though the kids are a little rowdy when they first come in, they’re more willing to participate in discussion than any of my other classes are.

  I love the written word. I read every day of my life, and I can’t remember a time when I didn’t. I’m not a book snob, either. I love modern indie authors as much as I love classic literature. Being able to share my passion with those who are willing to accept and embrace it is a gift.

  “Afternoon everyone.” I speak louder than normal to get everyone’s attention and quiet the chatter around the class. The class quiets and everyone turns forward to grab their books. I assigned them to read The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton last week. Discussion begins today.

  “I am counting on the fact that you’ve all at least started The Outsiders by now?” I phrase it as a question and see many of the students nodding their heads. “Good. This will probably be my favorite lesson of the year, because, well, this book is one of my all-time favorites. Susan Eloise Hinton grew up in the 1950s and ‘6
0s in Tulsa, Oklahoma. She started writing this story at the age of fifteen. Fifteen,” I reiterate. “That’s younger than most of you in this class. It was revolutionary when it was released in 1967. Hinton was frustrated with the social divisions in her own high school, and she wanted to bring forth some sort of realistic fiction for young adults to relate to. That is more profound than most people realize.”

  I make my way to the front of the class and look at my students. I have their undivided attention, and that makes my heart swell. “Now, I know that you may have read this book before. Maybe for school, maybe for fun. However, I want you to read it again. I want to you look closely at the underlying messages in this book. This book is transcendent. As you read it, apply it to your life today. Other than some minor details and time-specific lingo, this book could easily be about high school students right here in Alabama today.”

  I walk through the rows of desks, making eye contact with each and every one of them. High school is a cruel place. I want each of them to know that they have a place where they belong. I want each of them to find someone that they can identify with, even if that person is fictional. “Find your counterpart. While you read, find yourself inside one of the characters. Are you a happy-go-lucky charmer like Sodapop? A wise guy, jokester like Two-Bit? A leader, an authority figure, like Darrel? A person who would like to break out of social divisions, but just can’t seem to do it, like Cherry? Find the character who speaks to you the most. I want to hear about who you connect to and why next class.”

  We spend the rest of class discussing the general plot line and some of the major characters in the novel.

  About ten minutes before the bell rings, the fire alarm starts blaring through the school. Immediately, my students’ eyes fill with panic. They know as well as I do that there wasn’t a drill scheduled for today. “Alright, everyone, calmly grab your things and let’s make our way to the parking lot. I grab my purse from my desk drawer and head to the classroom door.